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THE Bl^ANDVWINE ^ 

By John Pils.scII Hciij("^^ 
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Bij l^ol)ert SI \civv ^ ^ 



WiliiAingron, ix^laware: 
Ihc John M. k'ocjers 
Press: 1690 ^ «*» ^^ 



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Copyright by 
John Russell Hayes 






To C. H, ^ ».■« 



^l7e Brand^Wine 

■'I lie as lies yon placid Brandywiiie. 
Holding the hills and heavens in my heart 
For contemplation." 

— Sidney Lanier 



DEAR Stream of Beauty, — famed from olden time, 
Renowned in annals of our early days; 
Stream by whose banks the ancient Indians dwelt, 
And on thy waters plied their swift canoes. 
And in thy woodlands tracked the fleeting deer, — 
Wawassaii called by those red foresters, 
Or Siispeco, as other legends say: 
Stream on whose shores our fathers fought and fell, 
Immortally remembered with the name 
Of Washington, — and Wayne, our county's pride, — 
And glorious Lafayette, — and many more, 
Whose memories romantic shall not die. 
Forever in our grateful hearts enshrined: 

Dear Stream of Beauty, — loved of poets all; 
Dear to our Taylor in his ardent youth; 
The joyous theme of Read and Everhart; 
And sung by him from out the southern land, 
Lanier, the lover of all loveliness: 



Dear Stream of Beauty, — flowing gently down 
Among the windings of my native hills, 
Gathering from all thy tributary brooks 
A richer force, and bearing from far heights 
Eternal tidings to the hoary sea: — 
Thee would I celebrate. O till my page 
With thy soft music, and vouchsafe to grant, 
In measurement however small, the power 
To picture with a true and loving hand 
Thy visionary beauty calm and sweet ! 

A song of gratitude is mine, for since 

In boyhood's hour 1 rambled on thy banks 

And bathed or angled in thy peaceful pools. 

My love has been for thee; and later days 

Have but enhanced the joy thy presence gave. 

Youth's golden years and seasons of delight, 

Its happy fantasies and dreamings high. 

Were brighter yet for thy companionship; 

Thy rocks and shadowy groves, thy daisied fields. 

Deep pastoral solitLides and placid vales. 

And all the voices of thy hundred hills. 

Did speak in memorable accents, rich 

With messages from Nature's inner heart. 

Among thy sunny meadows first 1 breathed 
The joyousness, the passion that delights 
In all the tranquil loveliness and charm 
Of field and dell, of tree and stream and sky. 
Blue mist\- hill and dreamy woodland soft. 







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77/^' u'/iisficn'no- irn/s that line 
thy small lagoons'''' 



Life-giving sunshine and the fragrant rain, 
The dew-drops twinkling on the grass and leaves, 
The billowy clouds, — soft islands of the air, — 
Morn's tender radiance, and the hushed repose 
Of forest sanctuaries, and the songs 
Of warbling birds, wild Nature's choristers; 
May's vernal freshness exquisitely fair. 
The sunny summer-tide of poppied ease, 
The gorgeous autumn's melancholy grace. 
And all the beauty of the rural world. 
How many happy hearts have thus been led 
To close communion with earth's lovely forms. 
Beloved Brandywine, and who would not 
Record with grateful voice the debt of joy. 
Of pure unfading joy and rapture high. 
Whose first awakening he owes to thee ! 

Born of the distant hills and northern woods. 

And wandering wide throughout a fertile land, 

Bringer art thou of richest fruitfulness, 

Abundant harvests and the laden bough. 

Full-handed plenty follows all thy course. 

And thou art blessed by thankful multitudes 

Who love thy placid beauty well, and hold 

In fond regard thy ever-winding stream. 

Each quiet little gulf and gleaming bay. 

From those high crystal springs that give thee birth 

To thy last reach in Delaware's far fields. 



-13- 



For whether hastening' with murmurous song 
Down pebble-fretted slopes, or lingering 
In tranquil majesty along thy deeps, 
A kindly influence is ever thine. 
No fairer meadows or more fertile farms 
Are known than those thy quiet currents lave. 
Thy mellow acres yield their rich increase 
Of clover, corn, and gently waving wheat; 
Sleek -coated cattle graze upon thy meads. 
The sweetest flowers cluster by thy banks 
And waft their incense from a thousand vales. 
The old farmsteads upon thy grassy slopes 
Are homes of a contented people, proud 
To till the acres which their fathers held 
Ere that red day on Birmingham's high hills. 
Here old-time faith and manners are not dead; 
Calm days and nights till out the tranquil year; 
Simplicity hath here her dwelling-place. 
And all is pastoral happiness and peace. 

Far from hot pavements and the vexing cares 

Of crowded marts thy quiet waters flow, — 

By silent groves and soft idyllic glades. 

By upland slopes where wild strawberries grow. 

And meadows green with spicy peppermint; 

By banks where bloom the cowslips named for thee. 

And fields of crimson clover where the bees 

Are gleaning fragrant harvests all the day: 

Now loitering many a cool and shady mile 



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"Sonic /oi(d-droniiiff mill 
among the trees " 



By woodhind aisles and sylvan corridors, 

Where moss and tangled fern clothe all thy banks 

With softest green, and little fairy groves 

Of dainty maidenhair sway in the breeze; 

Now drifting quietly in sheltered pools 

And fords where mild-eyed cattle seek, the shade; 

Now issuing forth into the gleaming day 

And rollicking with silver laughter down 

In foaming waterfalls, across whose breast 

The tiny rainbow bends its jewelled bars. 

Then winding forth again thou dost caress 

The whispering reeds that line thy small lagoons. 

And water-grasses whose long amber arms 

Wave ceaselessly along thy CLU'rents clear. 

And oft thy forceful waters are restrained 
And sent along the full, rush-margined race. 
To turn the mossy, ever-dripping wheel 
Of some loud-droning mill among the trees. 
What pleasure, pausing here, to peer within 
The olden chambers dim with dusty meal, — 
To see the portly sacks of new-threshed wheat. 
And yellow corn that almost bursts the bins. 
And hear the mill-wheels grumbling o'er their task 
Of grinding grain for all the countryside ! 

Beneath the arch of many an ancient bridge 
Thy waters move with eddying swirl, untouched 
By languors of the dusty road above. 
In stately march thou sweepest past the fields 
—19— 










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"Beneath the areh of many 
an ancient bridge ' ' 



Where rudLly farmers ply their harvest toil, 

Mixing the music of the whetted scythe 

With thy soft murmurs, piling up the rows 

Of dry, sweet-smelling hay, which thence is drawn 

In creaking wagons to the generous mows 

Of old stone barns, — upon whose mossy roofs 

The crimson-footed pigeons sit and croon 

In sober companies; now wheeling down 

In white-winged circles to the yard below. 

To pick the scattered grains of wheat and oats; 

Now settling on the eaves with stately pride 

To show the beauty of their burnished necks. 

High overhead the snowy cloud-land tloats. 

And in the mirror of thy lucent depths 

Repeats the beauty of its mystic forms. 

Its pearly mountains and its creamy capes. 

And islands drifting through the azure seas. 

How sweet 1 found it oft on summer days 

To launch my boat, and on thy placid tide 

To drift as do the clouds, without a care, 

And full of peace as they. O hours of dreams, 

Of dreams and soft imaginings and fond 

Reflections, — fantasies without a name ! 

Or waking from my revery, 'twas joy 

To send the boat along with eager stroke, 

Rousing thy surface into sparkling rings 

That eddied toward the shore with rhythmic dance. 

Anon 1 loved to patise with dripping oar, 

—23— 



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To drift as do the clouds, :cilhoiit a care, 
And full of peace as tlicy" 



And peering into thy transparent deeps, 
To mark the timid tlsh that hovered there, — 
The silver-sided chub, the dusicy bass, 
And Httle suntish with their golden scales. 
Now winnowing the water with clear gills, 
Now darting with a flash of purple tin 
Far into watery shades and silent homes 
Of willow roots beneath the sedgy bank. 
Or shadowy chambers in the sunless rocks. 

In drowsy afternoons oft have 1 heard 
The tiny insect voices by thy shores, — 
The lazy chorus of the katydids. 
The faint, small murmur of the busy gnats 
That dance in fretful clouds above the sands 
That border on thy shallows, and the keen, 
Sweet chirrings of the sleepy locust-kind. 
Those happy idlers of midsummer days. 
There would I muse till misty evening brought 
The clear nocturnal croakings of the frogs 
Sheltered beneath thy overhanging banks. 
Or perched upon green lily-pads afloat 
hi star-lit waters of thy waveless coves. 

The tranquil evening hour beside thy stream, — 
What peace and pensive solitude then reign! 
The herds have left the fields, the harvest-teams 
Long since have gone with their last fragrant loads; 
Soft vapors o'er the meadows sleep, and all 
Is rest and quietude, save where the dove, 
—27— 



In some cool covert hid from human eye, 
Grieveth and grieveth all the darkling eve. 
Ah, gentle mourner, what soft pain is thine, 
What tender melancholy stirs thy breast? 
Perchance some old romantic sorrow lies 
About thy heart, or memory of wrong 
Done to thy kind long since in some green vale 
Of dim Thessalian woods. Thy pensive note 
No elegy can match, and thy sweet woe 
Makes memorable the sacred twilight hour. 

An ever-varying poetry is thine, 
O gentle Brandywine; songs light or grave, 
As fancy's changeful ear interprets them, 
Thy crystal-chiming waters sing to me. 
Yet not thy voices only do I hear. 
Soft and mellifluous ever though they be; 
For blending with their harmony the sound 
Of Old World rivers comes across the years, 
And pleasant revery bears me to the banks 
Of Derwent sweet, whose music tilled the heart 
Of Wordsworth while as yet a little child; 
Or silver Duddon, offspring of the clouds; 
Or honest Walton's peaceful river Lea; 
Or that slow-winding stream, the languid Ouse, 
Well-loved of him who sang of country joys 
In calm reflective verse; or yet again 
To old Dean-Bourne, where by the plashy brink 
Grew Herrick's datfodils whose loveliness 
—29— 



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"T/ii peaceful charm and sure/ tranqiiiUity' 



He made immortal. Yea, and farther yet 
My musings carry me, and echoes faint 
Of reedy-marged llissus do 1 hear 
Murmuring of nymphs and river-deities. 
And all the glory of the violet hills 
That lie around Athena's marble town. 

Athena! ah, the name is here unknown; 
Unheard Cephissus and llissus here; 
Thy woodlands are unhaunted by the nymphs, 
No hamadryads whisper 'mid the leaves 
Of thy tall trees; nor does the sportive crew 
Of satyrs range with Pan thy vernal fields. 
No far-descended echoes wake thy hills 
Of that poetic life whose perfect joy 
Made fair unto all time Aegean isle, 
Idalian fount, and Heliconian vale. 
And liveth now but in the faded grace 
Of carven Attic frieze or Grecian urn. 

Nor does the nightingale, lorn Philomel, 
Among the shadows of thy moonlit glades. 
Pour out her old ancestral threnody 
For Itylus through all the summer night. 
Nay, — yet thy thickets have their own sweet bird. 
The poet-bird that keeps his lonely state 
In sylvan cloisters far from eye of man, — 
The dear wood-robin ! Underneath green roofs 
Of forest solitudes what joy to hear 

—33— 



The liquid fluting of this minstrel rare 

Thrilling the beechen shades with rapturous song ! 

Now fading,— now returning, — conies his voice, 

in purling cadence clear as is the plash 

Of sweet-toned rills o'er pebbles smooth and cool. 

Streams of romance and beauty have I known, — 
The lordly Shannon rolling down his tides 
Far in the west of green Hibernia's isle; 
The tranquil Thames that dreams beside the grey 
And storied walls of Oxford's ancient town, 
And passes on through England's loveliest meads 
By many a hamlet quaint and flowery garth; 
The "wandering Po" that waters Lombardy; 
And Rhone's imperial river, icy-pure, 
Bearing a largess from high Alpine fields 
To pour into the lap of the Mid-Sea. 

Yet still with happy heart to thee I turn. 
Beloved Stream, that noLn'ished tirst my joy 
In rural beauty and idyllic scenes, 
And solitude, that teacher calm and wise. 
Well may fair Chester County's children bless 
Thy tranquil flood that from far northern hills 
Brings fruitfulness to these wide meads and vales. 
And tills the lields with verdure rich and deep. 
The soul and centre thou of every tract 
And fertile township where thy currents flow; 
Each bubbling waterfall, each amber pool. 
Each tributary runnel dimpling down 

—35— 









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"And those iL'idc kills of storied Binnijiffliam" 



From folded hills, confirms thy gentle power, 
Thy peaceful cliarm and sweet tranquillity. 

Unfading is the loveliness that clings 

Round each familiar scene along thy course: — 

The upland tields of fertile Honeyhrook; 

The willowed banks of pastoral Fallowtleld; 

The silent wooded vales of dear Newlin, 

Home of arbutus and primeval pine, 

And its old hillsides where my fathers wrought 

For generations long agone; thy shores 

In green Pocopson, haiint of tishermen; 

And pleasant Bradford rich with waving corn; 

And those wide hills of storied Birmingham, 

Where Lafayette, exemplar bright and pure 

Of old noblesse and ancient chivalry, 

Spared not to shed his blood in our high cause. 

And linked his name and Liberty's for aye! — 

Such beauties and such memories still cling 

Around thy valleys and thy verdant glades, 

Rich pasture-lands and silent, virgin woods, 

Historic hills and loved ancestral farms, — 

From those high crystal springs that give thee birth 

To thy last reach in Delaware's far tields. 

Forever fair, O Brandywine, art thou. 
Forever fair in thine unceasing flow ! — 
A type and symbol unto restless man 
Of calm contentment, and devotion high 
To duty's bidding, — with unceasing flow 

—39— 







'Rich pasture-lands and silent, vifffin 'ivoods" 



Fullilling- through the years thy destiny. 
The sun in stately majesty doth rise, 
Across wide heaven journeys all the day, 
Fades in the purple west and disappears; 
The sickle moon swims high above the woods 
And sheds her radiance o'er the dreaming hills, 
While that lone eremite the evening star 
Comes loitering across the azure fields. 
Each hath his season, each his time of rest: 
But thou unresting art; majestic sun 
And sickle moon and lonely evening star, 
In turn are mirrored in thy lucent breast. 
While day and night thou movest on thy way, 
Forever fair in thine unceasing flow! 

Then blessings on thy heaven-given power 
To cheer the heart of man with lofty joy, 
With joy and sweet content and deepest peace,- 
Dear Stream of Beauty, — flowing gently down 
Among the windings of my native hills. 
Gathering from all thy tributary brooks 
A richer force, and bearing from far heights 
Eternal tidings to the hoary sea ! 



—43- 



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